


How Happy You Might Be

by someonenotchloe



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Dimension Travel, F/M, Happy Ending, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, SHIP DARCY WITH ALL THE THINGS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7818838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonenotchloe/pseuds/someonenotchloe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not having heard of the multiverse apparently doesn't protect you from being sent dimension hopping - at least not if you're Bucky Barnes. Similarly, deciding you're too fucked up to risk falling in love doesn't do a goddamn thing to stop it happening. Although maybe Bucky should just take his own advice (literally) and consider all the possibilities...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chapter fic on here, so bear with me. 
> 
> Title from A Softer World.

Bucky woke with a start. His heart was pounding furiously somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, and a clammy sweat stretched over his skin in a thin layer. He threw the heavy blankets off of him angrily and clambered out of bed, wincing internally as his bare feet touched the freezing hardwood floor. He pattered across the boards and into the living room, eyes roving restlessly over the couch, the television, into the kitchen. He quickly identified the mysterious lumps and shapes throughout the apartment as being his own belongings, but the thumping of his heart wouldn't settle. He was unnerved, though you'd never know it to look at him. He checked the locks on the doors and windows at least three times each. He flung open the pantry door and then slammed it closed again. His fingers slid into his hair and tightened, the metal ones tugging almost imperceptibly harder as he pulled his hair back away from his forehead. He ran a hand - his real one - over his sweaty face, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers as his feet carried him, almost without his permission, to his couch, onto which he sank heavily. His backpack lay on the floor by his feet, and he fumbled his pack of cigarettes out of it, lighting one with fingers made steady only by long practice. As the smoke curled up towards the ceiling, a blinking light came on in the corner, Tony's alarm system recognizing the smoke and alerting him to its presence. Like he didn’t already know.

"Mr. Barnes," said FRIDAY's voice calmly, emanating from wherever Tony had hidden the speakers. "Smoking is not permitted in the Tower."

"Yeah, well," said Bucky, and found he had nothing else to add. He inhaled and exhaled another cloud of smoke, the nicotine settling him slightly and the familiarity of the action settling him more.

"Mr. Barnes," said FRIDAY, more sharply this time. "I am going to have to insist you put the cigarette out."

"Come on," he said. "What are you gonna do about it, anyway?"

"I will be forced to alert Captain Rogers. He will be concerned about your behavior."

"Tattling on me to Stevie, huh?" said Bucky, but he stubbed out the cigarette on the sleek glass coffee table the apartment had been furnished with and slumped back in his seat. He didn't need Steve knowing about the nightmares, didn't want to deal with his concerned face and his questions. It wasn't like Bucky could remember the dreams anyway. There wasn't anything to talk about. He rubbed a hand unconsciously up and down his metal arm, fingers sliding over the plates and ridges. His insides were still churning, restless energy zinging through his limbs. He wanted to hit something, to pack a bag and go, to destroy everything he'd built since Steve had brought him in. Something. Restraining those impulses just made the restlessness worse. He thought about going for a run, but it had been suggested (politely, with lots of euphemisms) that he probably shouldn't leave the Tower until the press had calmed down, and until he himself was less volatile. They still weren't sure of him, although he thought Steve might be. Bucky certainly wasn't. How could he be sure he didn't have that programming still tucked away in some corner of his brain? More immediately, how could he be sure he wouldn't just snap, just let the shit he'd been through catch up with him and give in to the part of him that would like nothing better than to run, and to beat the shit out of anyone who got in his way?

He thumbed his pack of cigarettes, foot tapping spasmodically. His fingers tattooed a random beat on the coffee table. This lasted several minutes. Finally, fed up, he wrenched himself off the couch and out his front door. He didn't wander around the Tower much - there were too many people, too many questioning eyes on him. But he couldn't sit still another minute. He padded out into the hallway, the patterned carpet under his bare feet soft, and of a much higher quality than he was used to. Everything in the place screamed of money, from the carpets to the high-tech security cameras installed at intervals along the ceiling. Steve had assured him there were no cameras in the rooms, but he thought there probably were, and Tony had just decided Steve didn't need to know about it. It seemed like there was a lot Tony got up to that Steve didn't know about.

As he made his way down the hall to the bank of elevators, he realized he didn't really have any idea of where he was going. He considered heading down to the communal kitchen/living room that Tony had set up on what they usually referred to as "the Avengers floor" (that is, where Steve and the rest of the team had their apartments) but the likelihood of running into one of the others was too high. Not his first choice in a mood like this. The rest of the floors were occupied with either Stark Industries or the labs. He didn't think he had business being in the offices, and he'd been staunchly avoiding any kind of labs or medical, except for the battery of tests they'd insisted he undergo when Steve first brought him in. Shockingly enough, labs didn't exactly fill him with joy. Not that anything did these days.

Mind made up, Bucky decided to forgo the elevators and instead made for the stairs. They were industrial and cold, unlike the rest of the Tower, and as best Bucky could figure Tony wasn't even aware of their existence. He suspected Pepper had added them to bring Tony's design in line with fire code regulations. They were always deserted, which made Bucky like them pretty well, and more importantly, they had access to one of the smaller roofs. It was there that Bucky was headed. The fresh air would clear his head. Another plus was that, like the stairs, that roof was generally pretty empty, although someone had set up a folding chair there recently, which irked Bucky to no end. He suspected it was Barton. That man turned up in the darnedest places. Just the other day he had fallen out of the ceiling in the common room and interrupted one of Bucky's longstanding arguments with Steve. But it was (Bucky checked the glowing display of his Starkphone) almost 4 in the morning. Barton, or whoever it was, would be sound asleep. He pushed open the heavy metal door to the roof.

"Ow!" someone exclaimed as Bucky felt the door smack into resistance. "What the fuck?"

Taken aback, Bucky let the door swing closed. It swung open again immediately, revealing an angry brunette in pajama pants and a tank top. Her hand was pressed firmly to her forehead, and Bucky suspected she was angry because he'd just conked her with a door. A door he had opened with his metal arm. He winced.

"Sorry," he said.

"Sorry doesn't even begin to cover it, mister," said the girl, now poking gingerly at the red spot on her head. "What are you doing, skulking around in the stairwell in the middle of the night? Who are you, anyway?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he said, temper and indignation flaring up his spine.

"Hey, I am one hundred percent allowed to be here. For all I know, you could be - whoa."

He followed her gaze to his metal arm. He hadn't been wearing a shirt while asleep and hadn't bothered to put one on when he woke up. Which didn't exactly lend credence to her accusation that he might be an intruder. They generally came equipped with shirts. Without one the arm was displayed to full effect, and her eyes were now firmly affixed to his left side. His hand came up instinctively to cover it, but there wasn't a lot he could do about an entire arm. He settled for hiding his shoulder from her gaze. He didn't like people looking at the scars.

"Cool arm," she said, and Bucky blinked. That...wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting. It wasn't the reaction he usually got. Like, sure, Stark had basically fanboyed all over the arm (while ignoring Bucky entirely) but most people eyed it with fear, or at least wary uncertainty.

"Thanks?" Bucky said, not sure how to respond. "I promise I'm not an intruder."

"Yeah, well, if you are you're kind of an incompetent one," she said, appearing to concede that he was not, in fact, dangerous. Which was completely wrong. But whatever. "I'd like to be think HYDRA could do better than thwacking a lab assistant with a door."

He flinched when she mentioned HYDRA, but he didn't think she noticed.

"You a new Avenger or something?" she asked, then didn't wait for an answer to continue. "I swear, they bring home all sorts. Mostly attractive sorts," she added, giving him an appraising look. "But you get some wacky superpowers here in New York. What do they call you? Cyborg?"

"I'm not a superhero," he said, nonplussed. The salacious look she'd given him threw him. He didn't think of himself that way, didn't think of his body as more than a tool, just as a gun or a knife or even the arm was a tool. It has been imperative to his work to keep his body in shape, and then it had been a habit, a convenient outlet for excess energy. Probably what he should have done tonight, rather than getting tangled up with this girl, with her bruised forehead and her dark eyes. The way her gaze had lingered on his bare chest, on his muscles, made Bucky's stomach stir uncertainly. She didn't know who he was, of course. She probably thought he was like Steve. Someone she could trust. She couldn't trust Bucky. He couldn't even trust himself.

"Well, Mr. Not-a-Superhero," she said, interrupting his thought spiral. "You got a name, or should I just call you Terminator?"

He'd heard the same reference from Tony, but still didn't understand it. He ran a hand over his hair to hide his confusion, tugging ineffectually at the long strands. "I'm..." he started, then trailed off. It was nice, he thought suddenly, interacting with someone who didn't know his history, who didn't automatically recoil every time he moved. He took a deep breath. Maybe he could pretend - just for tonight, just to this girl - that he wasn't a fucked up assassin masquerading as a real person. 

"I'm James," he told her finally.

"Darcy," she said, holding out her hand. "Jane's assistant."

"Jane Foster," he said, his brain supplying an image of a petite brunette scientist. "Thor's girlfriend?"

"That's Janey," said the girl. Darcy. It made sense that he hadn't seen her before if she worked in the labs, since he avoided them like the plague. In fact, just knowing she was a scientist set his teeth slightly on edge. "Look," she said, stepping back a little. "I was here first and you will NOT stop me stargazing, robot hand or no, but you could hang out, too. If you want."

He stared at her maybe a moment longer than was polite, then nodded once. She stepped back again, and this time he slid past her onto the roof. She dropped gracelessly into the folding chair (which he could only assume was her doing) and he slung his long legs over the wall, dangling above the lights of New York. For a while they just sat there, her watching the sky (Jane Foster was an astrophysicist, right?), him just trying to be alone with his thoughts, despite the presence of the pretty brunette. She _was_ pretty, he acknowledged. Bucky might be fucked up but he wasn't blind. In another life - a former life - she'd have been exactly his type. All dark curls and gentle curves. He resisted the urge to glance at her over his shoulder and get a better look.

She was the one who broke the silence first. "What brings you to my humble rooftop, James?" she asked, and he twisted around to see her leaning back, long legs crossed casually.

"Your rooftop?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Don't see your name on it. Although Stark's probably is, somewhere."

"Stuff it, wise guy," she said, then raised one eyebrow, her voice going almost sultry. "You, uh, come here often?"

"Oh, come on," he said, half laughing, which was at least half a miracle. "That line's been old since my day."

"Shut up, you can't be that much older than me."

"Would you believe me if I said I was 94?" he asked, knowing he was playing with fire, risking her figuring out who he was.

"Well," she said contemplatively, "Thor's sure looking good for his age." She gave him another appraising look, this one clinical. "But you don't look Asgardian."

"You have a lot of experience with Asgardians?"

"Enough," she said, a smug look stealing over her face. "I tased Thor."

He bust out laughing. It felt good to laugh, to release some of the tension that lived coiled in his gut. He found himself smiling stupidly at Darcy. She'd made him laugh. Nobody had made him laugh in...

He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed.

"What about you?" he asked, unreasonably curious about her. "What brings you up to 'your' rooftop?"

"The stars," she said simply.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, glanced up to check the New York sky hadn't suddenly become less light polluted in the last five minutes. It hadn't. "There aren't any," he said.

"I know," she said, her face twisting into a bitter moue. "Don't remind me. And stop looking at me like I'm crazy," she added. She sighed, eyes fixed on the heavens. "I just miss them is all."

"You an astrophysicist too?"

"No," said Darcy, looking taken aback. "God no. I was a Political Science major. I’m mostly just here to keep Jane fed and caffeinated. I do busywork, too. Crunch numbers. I'm no scientist."

Bucky's mouth turned up slightly. "Good."

"What?"

"Nothing."

It was easy, talking to Darcy. Like it had been with Steve, before...everything.

But that wasn't quite right, either. Nothing about Steve made Bucky's stomach clench in quite the same way, made him question his own self-imposed celibacy. He crushed those feelings ruthlessly. He might have been interested, once upon a time, but that didn't mean he should just relax his carefully won self-control and start kissing lab assistants. If he liked her - and he had to admit to himself he did - that just meant he was getting better, not that he was ready to jump back into the dating pool. Maybe he should tell Steve. That was the kind of shit that made Steve happy.

Around 5am Darcy started yawning widely in the middle of telling him about Puente Antigua, and he decided maybe it was time for both of them to turn in. Darcy went willingly when he pulled her out of her chair, and she didn't even flinch at his metal hand on her own soft, fleshy one. She let him half carry her down the stairs, and it wasn't until his feet had unconsciously brought him halfway to his door that he realized he had no idea where she lived.

"Darcy," he said, giving her a gentle shake. "Darcy, which apartment is yours?"

Darcy looked around blearily, then gestured limply back the way they'd come. "Tha' one," she yawned.

She was just down the hall from him. Shit, had he been passing her all this time and never noticed? 

Probably not. He'd have noticed a girl like her.

He brought her back down the hall to her door, and she pressed her thumb against the pad to unlock it. She paused there, turned back to him, and said, "How'd you know which floor I live on?"

He shrugged. "Lucky guess."

When he got back to his own room he closed the door gently and leaned against it with a thunk. He could almost feel her still, her soft curves pressed against his shirtless chest. He could almost smell her shampoo.

"Fuck," he said.

He spent a lot of time with Darcy after that. They'd stay up nights together and talk. Well, she did most of the talking. He didn't say a lot, but when he did it was just...nice. Talking to Steve was having all his words and actions analyzed, worrying what Steve would think if he told him about the nightmares and about how tense Bucky felt all the time, like a coiled spring. Darcy didn't judge him. She even got it, a little, about the nightmares. She told him she dreamt sometimes of the Destroyer. That was why she'd been on the rooftop so late at night when he'd met her. They'd both been driven there by their respective demons.

Of course, her demon was a deathbot controlled by a crazed god, and his was, well...him.

The only thing Bucky liked about himself was his strength, his competence. Not being able to use any of the skills he had drove him crazy. Sometimes it felt like fighting the bad guys was the only way he could possibly make up for being one of them. So when some crazy Asgardian lady calling herself the Enchantress turned up on their doorstep? Bucky was actually kind of glad.

There were fucking goblins or some shit everywhere. Bucky had no idea how this dame had fallen in with a bunch of fucking goblins, but it took all sorts, right? Bucky stuck one of the suckers with his knife, flipped he blade to his other hand and stabbed another, but more just kept on coming. They'd broken the elevator cables and the stairwell was full of the things, much to his chagrin, since he had to get up to Tony's floor, where Steve had told Bucky to meet him. Never one to let Stevie down, he sighed the sigh of a man regretting all his life choices at once. He jammed the fingers of his left hand into the crack in the elevator doors and just pulled. One of the doors peeled away with a screech, and Bucky leapt nimbly across the gap to grab onto the ladder. It creaked ominously at his weight.

Except it wasn't just his weight. One of the fucking goblin whatevers had grabbed onto his boots, and it clung to his legs with its abnormally long fingers. He pulled one leg free of its grasp, lifted his boot, and slammed it back down forcefully into goblin face. The creature, dazed, let go of Bucky and tumbled down the elevator shaft shrieking. Bucky climbed on, hurrying up the ladder in smooth pulls. He counted floors as he climbed, and when he reached the penthouse he turned, clinging to the ladder with his metal arm.

"Steve!" he yelled. "Steve, you punk, open the door!"

After a long moment, the doors slid apart, Steve holding an edge in either hand. He looked bemused to see Bucky clinging to the side of an elevator shaft, but he was obviously trying not to let it throw him. He reached out a hand, and Bucky swung for it, grabbing hold of Steve. He dropped slightly into the gap, but Steve caught him, one hand still braced on the doors. Bucky's boots found purchase on the metal wall, and he clambered up, holding onto Steve with both hands.

Once he was out of the elevator shaft he took a moment to breathe and survey his surroundings. His brain was in tactical mode, taking note of the goblin-free nature of the room and the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall. Stupid decision if you asked him. What the hell sort of security was that? He also noted that some Assembling seemed to be happening, with Wanda, Vision, and Barton clustered around Thor, who was sitting on Tony's expensive couch looking disgruntled.

"Thor's on lockdown," said Barton almost gleefully as they approached. "Looks like this Enchantress is after him. The rest of the team is taking care of her, and we're watching him. Welcome to the party."

"Don't know that I'd call this a party," said Bucky, the corner of his mouth turning up. "You're here, Barton."

"He made a joke!" said Barton, pointing at Bucky in astonishment. "Broody McBroodsalot made a joke!"

"At your expense," Wanda said.

"No, that's great," Steve said, looking at Bucky with big eyes. Bucky would almost swear they were glistening. "You haven't exactly been in a joking mood, Buck."

"Yeah, well," said Bucky, shrugging one shoulder noncommittally. He joked all the time around Darcy, but he had long ago made the tactical decision not to tell Steve about her. Or, he supposed, emotion might have factored into it. She was exactly Steve's type. Tough, curvy brunettes were a weakness with him. Bucky hated to admit it - in fact, every cell in his body screamed at him not to think about it - but he didn't think he could bear it if Steve and Darcy hit it off. Steve, after all, would be good for Darcy and was emotionally equipped to handle a relationship with her. So it was absolutely imperative they never meet.

Thor-sitting duty turned out to be pretty boring. Bucky entertained himself by throwing bits of paper at Barton, and Barton entertained himself by throwing them back with a higher degree of accuracy. Bucky had once considered himself the World's Greatest Marksman, just like Hawkeye, but he had to admit Clint was better. At least with arrows and spitballs. Bucky didn't know how he was with a rifle. Finally, just when Bucky was deciding Natasha had taken care of this Enchantress hours ago and was just enjoying watching them wait, something happened. He wasn't entirely sure WHAT, but something was definitely happening. Vision was instantly alert. That red bastard probably understood what was going on and just didn't feel it was necessary to share, but nevertheless. Nevertheless, Bucky could feel it happening. Something was curling through the room, curling through Bucky's skull. There was a voice in the fog, speaking a language he thought he almost knew, a song from his childhood. He saw, absently, Thor rise from his chair, heard Vision's calm voice speaking seriously to Thor as he walked towards the wall of windows. Something niggled distantly in his brain, in the place where he went when he went in the chair, and oh god, the chair, Hydra and the fucking chair and killing people over and over and over.

He slammed his fist into the coffee table, and the sound of the glass shattering brought him out of the fog. He flung himself across the room, stepped in front of Thor, his metal arm pressed into Thor's chest. He had no hope of stopping him, really, was already being pushed backwards across the plush carpeting by Thor's superior strength. But he slowed him down, and as he did so, Vision went into action. He glided forward smoothly, moving past Bucky, taking advantage of Thor's distraction to get one hand on Thor's forehead. Thor swung at him, but he was too slow. Vision closed his eyes, and whatever had been possessing Thor seemed to be neutralized, or at least held back, by Vision’s powers. The two of them sank to the carpet, leaving Bucky standing between them and the window.

There was a howl of rage.

Bucky whirled, and the window shattered, broken glass busting into the room in a wild wind. There was a woman there. He could see Tony, Sam, and Rhodey in the air behind her, firing with abandon, but their attacks hit an invisible barrier a few feet away from her and bounced off uselessly. She seemed to be floating inside some kind of spherical shield. Her long blonde hair whipped around her face, her hands outstretched in anger. She floated forward, and her eyes, green and glowing, seemed to be focused entirely on Bucky. He met her gaze, unflinching, but honestly she was freaking him the fuck out. There was something about her that screamed of power, and anger, and a willingness to use both to hurt other people. People like Bucky.  
“I wanted him,” she said. Or maybe she thought it. Her voice echoed inside his ears and his skull, and he wasn’t sure she was speaking English. “He would have been mine already if not for you. You resisted me. How?”

Bucky didn’t answer her. Her voice compelled him to respond, but he clamped down on the impulse. He wouldn’t allow anybody to fuck around inside his head ever again. He couldn’t.

“Oh,” she said, and her voice lost a hint of its ethereal quality. She sounded almost disappointed. “You have some practice resisting mind control, that is all. There is no magic about you.” She extended her long, thin fingers with their long, thin nails directly towards Bucky. “Whereas I? I have plenty of magic. I need not restrict myself to controlling the minds of others. Why should I, when I can do this?” She punctuated the last word with a flick of her wrist, and something unseen hit Bucky square in the center of his chest. He was sent flying, his whole body lifted into the air and sent crashing into – and through – the far wall. Lying in the dust and splintered plywood, Bucky felt the sensation of falling, of tumbling into nothingness. He reached out one hand towards Steve, whom he could vaguely see running towards him, and then everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I would get this out this weekend and I didn't and I am deeply shamed
> 
> Sorry

Bucky woke with a start. He groaned feebly, feeling the hard and sometimes uncomfortably sharp pieces of debris digging into his back through his jacket. He blinked dust out his eyes as he sat up. Vision still blurred, he pushed his hair back as well, trying to get a bead on his surroundings. It was still and quiet, but if the fight was over, why had he been left lying on the ground? With, he noticed, hand brushing painfully against his temple, what was probably going to turn out to be a concussion. Awesome.

As he took in his surroundings, the wary knot growing in his stomach worsened. He’d been on the top floor of the Tower. He was almost positive he’d been on the top floor of the Tower. But looking around, he was pretty sure he was somewhere in Central Park, because there was a distinctly larger amount of foliage than you’d expect to find on the top floor of a tower full of superheroes. There was also a curious jogger peering at him from the nearby sidewalk. He sighed and pressed his fingers into his eyeballs, trying to relieve some of the pressure. When he opened his eyes again, the jogger was gone. Bucky scrambled to his feet, skidding slightly on chunks of plaster, and tried to assess some of the details of what he could see around him. It was definitely Central Park. He could see some familiar landmarks in the distance, could see a few people hanging around them. In the distance a plane soared peacefully over the New York skyline. Where he was standing, however, a circle of destruction seemed to have landed smack dab in the middle of the grass. There was debris, bits of glass and wall scattered across grass that was scorched black. Some parts of it were still gently smoking. He checked himself over for injuries, but other than the concussion and most likely some bruises, he seemed to be fine. What had that fucking Asgardian done to him? Was this her idea of a joke? Drop his ass off in the middle of the park and make him walk home? He dusted off his jacket as best he could and stretched out his stiff limbs before heading for the path where he’d spotted the jogger. He supposed the only thing for it was to head back to the Tower and see if he made it in time to help out with the cleanup.

As he headed down the stretch of asphalt, however, chaos erupted all around him. He crouched defensively as black clad figures appeared from behind the trees, and the thing he had taken for a plane earlier came swooping in to land on the grass. More people came striding out, all looking perfectly competent and well-armed. Bucky was not well-armed (unless you counted the obvious), because he’d lost his knife at some point during the fight and he wasn’t exactly allowed to carry a gun any more than he was allowed to leave the Tower. He was cornered. One of the guys in black came at him and he stuck out an arm, clotheslining the guy and kicking his gun away. Another tried to tackle him from behind and he threw her off, taking the moment that gave him to check his boots for extra weaponry. Nothing. The soldier scrambled to her feet and levelled a gun at him, and the rest closed ranks, aiming their guns and shouting. They were scared of him – no surprise – and scared soldiers tended to have twitchy trigger fingers. He raised his hands, eyeing them levelly and trying not to make threatening movements.

While he was thinking about how best to carve a path through the soldier types and get away without killing anybody, something dropped out of the sky in front of him. The sidewalk fractured beneath it, and as it raised its arm, weaponry whirred and clicked ominously into place, aiming directly at Bucky.

“Rhodey?” he said, nonplussed.

The arm lowered slightly in surprise, then picked back up immediately. It was definitely Rhodey, or at least somebody wearing his suit, and out of the corner of his eye, Bucky spotted several other familiar faces approaching from the…not-actually-a-plane. It wasn’t the Quinjet, but Bucky supposed it could be something else Tony had been working on. Natasha was making her way towards him, and he had never been so relieved to see her in his life. He could see Steve behind her in full Captain America gear, the cowl obscuring his face. He spread his hands a little to show Rhodey and whoever the lackeys were that he wasn’t armed, and as Natasha drew closer he gave her a little wave. Her eyes narrowed sharply, and she elbowed a couple of soldier types aside to get closer to him. When she did, she pulled a knife swiftly out of god-knows-where and held it to his throat, her blue eyes never breaking contact with his own.

“Who sent you?” she demanded, pressing the blade slightly into his skin. “Why do you look like James Barnes?”

“Natasha,” he said, keeping his hands up, “I don’t look like James Barnes, I _am_ James Barnes. You know me. What’s going on, here?” He gestured vaguely to the soldier types, who shouldered their guns defensively at the movement. “Since when do the Avengers have henchmen?”

Natasha stepped back, stowing the knife with a look of scorn on her face. “Don’t lie to me,” she said. “Don’t bother. We’ll just find out the truth anyway. And,” she added, over her shoulder as she walked away, “don’t bother resisting. Boys! Bring him in.”

“Wait a minute,” said Captain America, stepping forwards through the advancing soldier types. “Let me look at him.”

Thank god, Bucky thought. Stevie would recognize him. He could sort it out and Bucky could go back to the Tower and ensconce himself in his apartment until Judgment Day. The captain strode forward, with a little bit of uncharacteristic swagger. Bucky blinked. The man standing before him, peering inquisitively at his face, was not Steve Rogers. He leaned forward to meet Bucky’s eyes, then leaned away again with a low whistle. “Not bad,” said the man. “Not bad at all. Although I think I could use a haircut.”

It wasn’t Steve Rogers. It was Bucky Barnes. 

He pulled off the Captain America cowl and strode away, shouting orders and directing his henchmen to collect Bucky and load him into the not-Quinjet. Bucky went without complaint. He was shaken to his very core. He lacked the wherewithal to object, even when one of the soldiers kicked him to get him moving. He thought it was the one he’d managed to hit in the throat. They handcuffed him, of course, but Bucky knew a thousand ways to get out of handcuffs, and these ones seemed weak enough he could probably just go with Option A: break them with his super strength. At the ramp into the jet the soldiers handed him over to the pilot, who hustled him into a seat. As he strapped him in, his face came close to Bucky’s, and Bucky realized he knew him, too.

“Barton?” he said.

The man’s head snapped up, and he glanced at Bucky, then over at the other Bucky, the Captain America one. “Fucking bizarre,” he said, shaking his head and climbing back into the cockpit. Bucky could empathize. As the plane took off, Captain America Bucky grabbed ahold of the overhead bar with one hand and pulled out a Starkphone with the other, hitting speed dial and putting the phone to his ear. He turned away from Bucky slightly, but Bucky could still hear every word he said. He had super hearing, did he really think he wouldn’t hear himself? And that was confusing enough thought to make his throbbing headache worse.

“We’re bringing him in,” said Captain America Bucky. “No, we don’t know yet. Well, fuck, Tony, what was I supposed to do, beat it out of him?” There was a pause, and he glanced over his shoulder at Bucky, then away again. “It’s…he’s exactly like me, Tony. Exactly. Call in our best and brightest.” He paused again. “Over and out.”

The rest of the flight continued in relative silence. Captain America Bucky kept his back to him, but also kept glancing over his shoulder to sneak a look. Natasha stared at him unabashedly from the seat opposite. He thought maybe she was trying to get a confession out of him through sheer force of will. Like if she made him uncomfortable enough, he’d just start yelling, “Okay, I admit it, I’m a robot copy of Bucky sent here by Hydra to destroy you!”

Hell, maybe it would have worked if he actually had something to confess. Natasha could be a deeply unnerving person.

Bucky wondered where the rest of the team was. He could see Warmachine through the windshield occasionally, flying just ahead of the plane, but it seemed like the three of them – Barton, Natasha, and Captain America Bucky – were the only ones who’d come in to collect an exact copy of Bucky Barnes who was wandering around Central Park. It had to make you curious what the others were doing that was more interesting than that.

Finally, the radio crackled on and Tony’s voice said, “Okay, Barton, all ready here. You’re clear to land.” Barton banked sharply and pointed the plane at the Tower. Interestingly, when Bucky caught a glimpse of it through the windshield the penthouse windows seemed to be in perfect condition. Could Tony have gotten that huge broken pane replaced so fast? Or had Bucky been out longer than he realized? Also, what the fuck was the other him doing wearing a Captain America costume? 

More to the point, why were there two of him?

As Barton brought the plane in, Natasha jerked Bucky out of his seat. She glanced at the cuffs and snorted, then looked at Captain America Bucky. “Could you break out of these?” she asked, nodding at the cuffs. Captain America Bucky looked at them and laughed. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like he ain’t such an exact copy after all.”

Bucky got his hackles up. “Would you rather I broke out of them?” he asked.

“Could you?” asked Captain America Bucky, cocking an eyebrow, and his eyes sparkled with humor in a way that was extremely foreign to Bucky. In response, Bucky just flexed slightly, the chain straining uncomfortably at the pressure.

“I could have been out of these cuffs in the park,” he said. “I could have broken loose a hundred times. But I’m not the one pretending to be Bucky Barnes.” He was more sure of that, now. It was the only explanation. This man was a copy, and while Bucky been out of it he had insinuated himself into the group. It seemed strange they would believe it. He was so unlike Bucky it was almost funny. It hadn’t been noticeable at first, because Bucky had been thrown by how much he looked like him, but it was there. This fake Bucky didn’t move quite like him, his expressions were different. He was more relaxed than Bucky, and he smiled more. He had an easy camaraderie with the team that Bucky lacked.

Maybe that was why they’d been so accepting. Secretly, this is what they wished Bucky was. They would rather have the fake.

“Oh, sure,” said Captain America Bucky, in response to the accusation. “You’re the one who appeared out of nowhere in the middle of Central Park, while I was here in the Tower, but sure. I’m the copy.” He reached down and unlocked Bucky’s cuffs. “Come on. No point in you wearing these, I guess, but make a wrong move and I will cheerfully put my fist through your face.” He gestured to the now-open ramp. “After you.”

As Bucky proceeded down the ramp onto the roof, he found the rest of the team, as well as some people who weren’t part of it, clustered on the roof, peering at him curiously. They looked between him and the other Bucky like they were watching a tennis match. When he spotted Steve watching him and doing his Concerned Face, some of the tension drained from Bucky’s shoulders. If there was anybody he trusted in this scenario, it was Steve. He gave Steve a short nod, and Steve, after a moment’s surprise, nodded back. He was wearing a plain white shirt and jeans, presumably because the other Bucky had his uniform, but he had an unmistakable aura of command. That was a relief. If Steve was in charge – not usurped by this fake Bucky – then Steve could be counted on to sort this all out. It would all be okay. As Bucky stepped forward, stumbling slightly on the ridged metal of the ramp, Barton took hold of his elbow. He jerked away in surprise, but Barton just tightened his hold, callused fingers holding Bucky in place. "Whoa there, cowboy," he said. "No wandering off." He glanced over his shoulder at the other Bucky. "Jumpy, huh? Reminds me of you when you first got here."

A thoughtful look slid across the other Bucky's face, but he said nothing, just gestured at Barton to follow him and started into the building. As Bucky followed stiffly after him, hyper aware of Barton's restraining hand on his arm, Steve fell into step beside him. It was an action so familiar it made Bucky's chest ache. He was still unable to recall specific moments when it had happened, but the familiarity was there, enough to tell him he had marched at Steve's side a hundred times and would do it again a hundred more. But Steve was eyeing him with wary suspicion, and that hurt more than Bucky had expected. Even when he was the Winter Soldier Steve had trusted in Bucky. It was a trust he hadn't thought he could ever lose.

"Where are we going?" Bucky asked as he was shuffled into an elevator.

"Interrogation rooms," said Steve brusquely.

"We don't have interrogation rooms," he said, but Steve just shot him a glance out of the corner of his eye and said nothing.

It turned out they did have interrogation rooms. Bucky was escorted into a small room, empty except for a table, two chairs, and a camera in the corner. The other Bucky leaned down and whispered something in Natasha’s ear, then she took hold of him and led him the rest of the way into the room, closing the door behind her.

"Now it's just the two of us," she said, looking almost amused. "Why don't you sit down?"

"I'll stand," he said, folding his arms over his chest.

She shrugged gracefully and slid into one of the chairs. "Suit yourself."

"Look, Tasha," he said, trying to take a diplomatic route. "I'm sorry I said that guy wasn't me. I'm not saying he is and I'm not saying he isn't, but you have to admit something strange is going on."

"You're the only strange thing I see around here," she said. "And my name is Natalia. Only my friends call me Tasha."

"We are friends!" Bucky said. Which was...kind of true, anyway. "And everything about this is strange. Since when does the Tower have interrogation rooms? This floor should all be Stark Industries."

"Your information is outdated," she said. "This is Avengers Tower. Stark Industries has its own building. Has for a while now."

"What?" he said, blinking.

"Tell me," she said, ignoring his confusion. "Who sent you here?"

"No one sent me," he growled, pacing the room. "I was fighting some Asgardian dame and she hit me with a spell. I woke up in Central Park. Then you guys swooped in out of nowhere and now we're here," he said, gesturing expansively to the room. A thought struck him. "How did you know where I was, anyway?"

She paused to look him over, then said, "Sam spotted you. He called us in."

"That jogger," Bucky said slowly, sinking into the other chair. "That was Wilson."

She nodded.

"And that other guy," he said, wanting to get more information out of her as long as she was talking. "The other...me. Since when does he dress up like Captain America?"

"When Sergeant Barnes was rehabilitated he and Captain Rogers agreed to share the responsibilities," she said. "You should know that, if you're pretending to be him. Why don't you?"

"I'm not pretending to be anyone!" said Bucky, frustrated.

"Hmm," said Natasha noncommittally. "Fine. This Asgardian you mentioned. Tell me about her."

"I don't know much," he said, slouching back in his seat. "She wanted Thor for some reason. We were fighting. She hit me with something that put me halfway through the wall of Stark's penthouse and when I woke up, I was in the park." He shrugged, then added, "Called herself the Enchantress."

"Amora," said Natasha, sitting up straighter. "Tell me more."

"Nothing else to tell," he said.

"Then tell me about...you, about the Avengers. Your life."

"You know already."

"Tell me anyway."

So he told her. About growing up in Brooklyn, about the army and the Commandos. He told her as little as possible about his time with the Russians, with Hydra. "Not memories I care to revisit," he said, and she accepted that. He told her about Steve bringing him in, how Steve had trusted him enough to help against Amora. "And that's it," he said. "We're here."

"Interesting," she said, then she stood abruptly and made for the door.

"Hey!" he said. "Wait a minute! What's so damn interesting?"

She looked back briefly over her shoulder. "Your life," she said "is – almost – exactly the same as Sergeant Barnes' up until a few months ago. There are some differences – mostly superficial – but you've said enough to convince me."

"That I'm actually Bucky?"

"No," she said. "That you're from an alternate dimension."

Bucky was, much to his chagrin, left to stew on that for a couple of hours. Eventually Natasha reappeared, this time with a bevy of scientists behind her. Bucky bristled, rising abruptly from his chair. "Stand down, Sergeant," said Natasha. "You already know Tony," she gestured to the man in question, "and this Dr. Richards, our resident expert on the multiverse. And this is Dr. Foster."

Dr. Richards was a tall, thin man with a shock of dark brown hair and a greedy look in his eye. Bucky disliked him instantly on principle. The petite brunette on Natasha's other side, however, could only be "Jane Foster," he said, nodding to her. "I've heard a lot about you." Because Darcy barely ever shut up about her. Whether she was complaining about her eating habits or gushing over her projects, it was obvious from the first time she mentioned her that Darcy thought Jane hung the moon.

"We haven't met?" said Dr. Foster incredulously, staring at Bucky.

"A lot of things are different in his universe," Natasha said warningly. "Maybe it's better if we don't know too much."

"Are you kidding?" said Richards, eyeing Bucky like a kid on Christmas. "There's so much we could learn! Tell me, how - "

But Bucky didn't let him finish. As Richards approached him, Bucky put out his metal hand and grabbed hold of his fingers. He twisted just slightly. "Don't touch me," he said.

"Oh, I like him," Tony crowed. "He reminds me of the good old days, before Steve made him promise to stop threatening the nurses. Mind you, the nurses were just doing their jobs." He eyed Richards. "That one deserves it."

"Boys," said Natasha, "play nice. Dr. Richards, kindly treat Sergeant Barnes like a human being and not like a plaything. Sergeant Barnes." She turned to him, the corner of her mouth turning up. "Try not to kill him."

Bucky released Richards and folded his arms defensively. "I don't do that anymore," he said, and Richards swallowed nervously.

"I know you don't," said Tasha after a pause, more gently than he'd ever seen her. "Sorry. Bad joke."

She'd made a mistake, he realized. Confused him with that other Bucky, who maybe was a person who people could make jokes like that with. Maybe, he thought, even a person who had never done anything quite as bad as he himself had had to do. But that was an unproductive line of thinking. He'd done those things. He didn't joke about them. The end.

"Do you really not know me?" asked Jane, looking closely at him and interrupting his reverie.

"We've never met," said Bucky uncomfortably. "But I really have heard a lot about you. Good things."

"Who from?" she pressed, still staring at him intently.

"I...does it matter?" he asked, disconcerted.

"No," Natasha interjected. "It doesn't. What matters is figuring out how to get this Sergeant Banes back to his own universe. That's why I called in you three and your enormous brains."

The flattery worked, as well as the invitation to tackle a challenge of this magnitude. Natasha managed to steer all of them up into Tony's workshop (a good choice – it was the least lablike lab in the building, so Bucky wouldn't be quite so on edge. He admired Natasha's tactics) and let the scientists do their thing while Bucky perched uncomfortably on a stool and answered questions. He let their technobabble wash over him and tried not to throw anything. A lab was still a lab, after all.

After what seemed like hours but probably wasn't actually that long, Natasha informed them that Bucky needed a break. "Bicker amongst yourselves," she said, and as far as he could see as she swept him out of the lab they were following orders. "Come on," she said to him, jerking her head towards the elevators. "Food?"

He shook his head. "There's something I've been meaning to do," he said, "and now seems as good a time as any to do it."

In no time at all, Bucky and Natasha had made their way to her apartments. "Are you sure about this?" she asked, looking him in the eye.

He nodded.

"Could cause problems," she warned him.

"Just do it," he said.

This time she nodded. She reached out toward his face. Her fingers closed around one long, brown lock of hair. She snipped it off in one neat movement, the hair falling gently to her bathroom floor.

She set to work, expertly snipping and cutting as she worked her way around. The flash of the sharp silver scissors almost made him flinch, but he restrained himself. He'd asked for this, after all. Finally, when she was done, she shoved him into the shower to rinse off the bits and pieces of hair that were scattered across his shoulders. His head felt oddly light, and the lack of grip as he ran his fingers through his hair surprised him, even though he knew what to expect. As he showered, he heard Natasha puttering around in the bathroom, and when he stepped cautiously out, holding the shower curtain against himself modestly, he found she'd left him a razor and a half-empty can of shaving cream. There was also a note. It said, "Don't Ask."

Chuckling slightly, he opened the shaving cream and turned to face the mirror. He stopped with a jolt. He avoided mirrors as a rule. He'd become estranged from the person he saw in them, hated seeing the cold eyes of a killer every time he caught his reflection. But here he was, and he was...

Bucky.

He needed a shave, but God knew he'd needed one plenty of times before. And...it was still there. In the eyes. He thought maybe it wouldn't ever leave, that echo of the things he'd seen, the things he'd done. But he looked more like himself, as well, and it helped. He picked up the razor.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, feeling three thousand times better and probably looking it, Natasha was conspicuously absent. He assumed she'd gone down to the lab to Discuss him with the science types. She'd left him alone in her apartment, as well, something he didn't think even his Tasha would ever have done. Shaking his head, he ventured out into the hall and made for the kitchen. Luckily, it was in the same place in this world. Convenient, that. He dug through the fridge and discovered a container of takeout labeled "CLINT'S: EAT IT AND EAT ARROW". Bucky hummed happily when he discovered it contained Pad Thai, and fiddled with microwave controls.

"He means it, y'know," said a smooth voice behind him, and he leapt about a foot in the air, whirling to face the speaker. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Darcy," he said.

"Heya, handsome," she said, smiling as he flushed slightly pink. She moved closer, hips swaying interestingly. "You really brave enough to eat Clint's Thai food?"

"Guess so," he said. His throat felt tight. She was extremely close to him. Definitely inside of his personal bubble. "Must be, since I'm doing it." He jabbed blindly at the microwave buttons and managed to get it going.

"Mm," said Darcy, running a hand over his chest. His heart beat rapidly, a low thudding drowning out his brain. "I like a man who laughs at danger."

She pushed herself into her tiptoes so her face was right next to his, her dark eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheek. She bit her lip and he could have groaned with wanting to do the same, to just sink his teeth into the plump flesh. "Darce..." he started, hands coming up to her shoulders. He was on the verge of pushing her away when she closed the distance and then he was kissing her, his brain spiraling out of control with the _want_ and _need_ and dear god if he had to stop kissing her he thought he would die. His right hand slid from her shoulder to her hair, tightening around the soft strands and pulling her head back, just slightly, to give him better access to her mouth.

"What the fuck," said a flat voice in the doorway, and Bucky jerked away from her in surprise. The other copy of himself was standing just a few feet away, next to Natasha, who looked like she was trying not to laugh. "What the hell do you think you're doing to my girlfriend?" he said, a hard edge to his expression. Darcy gaped between the two of them like a fish as Bucky scrambled as far away from her as possible, the edge of the counter digging into his back. His Pad Thai beeped. Nobody paid any attention.

"When I said the haircut could cause problems," Natasha commented, voice laced with humor, "this is kinda what I meant."


End file.
